


Stupid For You | Tate Langdon

by EverybodyGetsHigh



Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Confessions, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Pre-Death Tate Langdon, there's no actual smut but it does get steamy towards the end, this was a fluff vent fic ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25833994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverybodyGetsHigh/pseuds/EverybodyGetsHigh
Summary: When you and Tate sneak into Westfield High with the intention of pulling off a few senior pranks, secrets are revealed and confessions are made. But at least you're sure of one thing. That you won't ever regret coming with him tonight for as long as you live.
Relationships: Tate Langdon/Reader
Kudos: 53





	Stupid For You | Tate Langdon

**Author's Note:**

> For the most part fluff but turns a bit more mature towards the end. No actual smut takes place but it’s steamy, baby. Also sorry for cock blocking ya’ll in this one, my bad.

Oh, the two of you are _so_ getting caught.

Everywhere around you – its dark – the corners of the halls pitch black and cast in eerie shadows. Why had you agreed to Tate’s stupid little plan? Well, it was really quite obvious if you were planning to do some self-reflecting tonight. You’re head over heels for the boy. Have been for well over a few years now, and you practically jump at any chance you get to be around him.

It’s pathetic, you know, but you just can’t help the way you feel. And now your “tiny” crush has gotten you here, locked inside Westfield High well after dark, with a bag full of spray paint and toilet paper strapped onto your back.

“Come on. Don’t chicken out on me now, (Y/n).” When Tate smirks at you from over his shoulder, you don’t waste a second in flipping him off. To which he snickers and rolls his eyes at, of course. He knows you could never really be mad at him.

“Shut up. I’m not scared . . . I just don’t like this.”

He’s a few feet ahead of you, dressed in all black (which isn’t unusual) and carrying a backpack of his own. Tate’s on the lookout, scanning the quiet surroundings for anyone who might be around at this time of night. 

Westfield’s a big place, enormous really, and everybody knows the Principal of the school has invested in round the clock security. Ever since last year’s _tragedy_ when a rival school had broken in and stolen the prized football championship trophy. Principal Worthington wasn’t willing to take any more risks. Which is why the two of you expect a guard to come rounding the corner any second now. Just ready and waiting to bust your sorry asses.

But so far, it’s only been you and Tate, not a single other soul around to interrupt your schemes. The blond abruptly stops ahead of you, flashlight beam peering down another quiet hallway. You stumble into his back out of surprise. He’s warm and solid against you, your fingers not so subtly lingering on his hips where you had grabbed in order to steady yourself.

The moment you’d touched him though, Tate’s eyes had broadened, his heart freezing within his chest. Just being around you never failed to send his mind into a static frenzy. 

When you’re with him, his thoughts go blank. His heart races and there’s this uncontrollable feeling that swells within him every time he sees you smile. And right now, as your fingers clutch onto the back of his shirt; there’s a lump in his throat and he’s completely forgotten how to breathe.

“Sorry,” You murmur, stepping away as your hands return to your sides. He doesn’t respond right away, still trying to get a hold of himself before answering.

Tate wants to tell you how he feels so bad right now. He’s wanted to for what feels like forever. The confession always on the tip of his tongue. But instead, he curls his hand into a tight fist, then squeezes it open and shut in order to expel some of that nervous energy. And as his focus is supposed to be on the lookout – you’re too busy trailing your eyes up and down the outline of his broad shoulders and back to notice the approaching footsteps until it’s too late.

The guard begins to whistle a tune beneath his breath, the noise echoing down the halls. It startles the both of you into action. Tate spins on his heels to face you, expression shaken and eyes blown wide. 

While you’re frozen in place, heart hammering obnoxiously outside of your chest as the sound of someone coming closer and closer rings in your ears. Each step you hear the stranger take, the sweat slicking your palms grows heavier. The terror seizing every muscle in your body strengthens its hold on you.

“Dammit, I told you we were going to get caught.” You’d hissed beneath your breath.

Tate’s a lot quicker on his feet, though. He ducks his head down to get closer. Ignoring your admission of defeat. Warm breath fanning over your cheek when he whispers: “Hurry.” The sudden close proximity between you and him has a shudder crawling up your spine.

He clasps onto your hand then, fingers lacing firmly with your own when he tugs you along, weaving through a set of standing lockers. His flashlight’s long been switched off, but the bright white beam of the security guard’s casts on the wall. Another warning that he’s getting ever nearer. But then, just as you see the light drift over onto your shoulder, Tate’s pulled you into a nearby closet. 

You find yourself pressed impossibly close to your best friend as the two of you pant breathlessly within the dark, the smell of his mint gum strong.

The gray door clicks shut almost silently behind you and the light filters in beneath the cracks. You shrug off your bag of supplies in order to make more room. The wooden shelves aligning the walls dig into your back as you and Tate wait anxiously together. It’s deadly silent in here, the flashlight rays lingering on the door for a suspiciously long time.

_You’ve been caught_ , you just know it. The security man spotted you hustling into the closet and now you’re going to get suspended from school. Or worse, expelled. Why had you agreed to pull this dumb prank? Stupid, stupid, stupid – Your internal scolding match is cut short the moment the guard moves on, his whistling carrying down the hall and away from the two of you.

Simultaneously, you breathe a sigh of relief, eyes flitting over to Tate’s. He meets your gaze, his form painted in blue darkness, but even beneath the shade of the room, you can see a spark flicker in his eyes. And then you hear his heart as it thuds in haste, loud and only growing faster with every second he holds your stare.

“Tate,” You murmur, unable to find a comfortable position to bend your arms in so you slide your hands up his torso. There, where your palms come to rest, you can feel his heartbeat, the sound pumping and electric beneath your touch.

“Yeah?” He answered back, voice quiet and breathy.

It’s just the two of you in here, so close to each other that you can see the faded bruise on his cheek from the fight he’d gotten into a couple weeks ago. It’s yellow and almost blends in with his ghostly pale complexion. And it’s still placidly quiet. 

Something about this little moment just feels so right, so different; maybe being flush against him has you feeling a little bold. Compelled to touch him in ways you could have only ever thought about doing before.

Your fingers, still trembling from the rush of adrenaline, slowly reach up and cup his battered cheek. His skin is unexplainably soft against yours. He peers down at you through the messy locks of dirty blond. But there’s a shy expression on his face, a hesitant one as he comes to gnaw on his lower lip. Like he’s fighting desperately with himself on what he should do, or say right now.

In his eyes, there’s a raw confliction and anxiety there, the sight of which tugs at your heartstrings. Once again, he’s holding himself back from god knows what. He’s fighting tooth and nail with his own emotions; keeping them bottled up inside like a ticking time bomb. You don’t know what to do to make him feel better. So you just do what your heart tells you to, or what it yearns for, to be more exact.

In the hush of the cramped space of the closet, you wrapped your palm around the base of his neck, fingers petting the soft hairs there. Then you pull him down into a warm embrace. Tate buries his face into the crook of your neck without thought; lean arms wrapping around your waist in a tight grip and he inhales your scent like a breath of relief.

The silence remains as the two of you continue to hold each other. His thumb brushes beneath the hem of your tee shirt, caressing the flesh of your waist. Your best friend smells like cigarettes and fresh linen.

“(Y/n),” Tate’s voice is muffled by the cotton fabric of your tee. But you can still hear the reluctance to his words.

Tate just knows that he has to tell you how he feels now. Otherwise he’s going to crumble pathetically in your arms. He feels like he already is. “I need to tell you something.”

You hum against him, your cheek pressed against his shirt and the fabric is warm and comfy. Then you give him a reassuring squeeze to let him know that you’re listening. He takes it as a green light to continue.

His breath shudders when he parts his lips to say what he needs to next. And for a while, he struggles to get up the courage to even do it. You’re his best friend. And although in this moment it just feels so right to confess, like _now’s the time_ – it’s meant to be. Tate can’t help but wonder if you even feel the same.

What if his feelings ruin everything? What if you can’t stand to look at him after he’s told you? What if you laugh in his face?

“Okay,” He exhaled through his nose. “But you have to promise me that after I tell you, you won’t look at me any differently than you do now. You have to promise that you’re not going to leave me.”

The ugly voices in his head begin to taunt him again. That pessimistic view of life bringing him down once more. Tate squeezes his eyes shut, nuzzling his nose against your neck. His entire body tense. It’s now or never. But can he actually go through with it?

What if he loses you forever?

“Please, _promise me_.”

You can’t help but furrow your brows at his words. There’s a worry growing inside you that bloomed the moment you heard the desperation and vulnerability lacing his tone. Whatever he needs to get off his chest must be far more serious than you had originally thought. 

But a part of you is just glad he trusts you enough to even enclose his secret to you in the first place. And a larger part of you already knows that whatever it is, you’ll _always_ be there for him.

You finally whisper back: “I promise Tate.”

The pressure builds within his chest until he feels like he’s ready to burst.

“I love you”

And then it all goes away the moment the words slip past his teeth.

He said it – _holy shit, he said it!_

Tate’s unwinding himself from around you in seconds to get a good look at your reaction. But the lack of space in the closet still keeps him pressed up against you tenderly close. Your eyes have widened, mouth agape in a muted gasp, and there’s a gentleness to your expression he won’t ignore. You look like you’re in awe – you feel like you’re in awe.

All this time you’ve been worrying your mind sick over what you thought was an unrequited love. And here this dumb fuck is, confessing to you, in a closet full of cleaning supplies that reeks heavily of disinfectant.

But you still haven’t said anything and the longer it takes for you to respond, the less hopeful Tate’s become. He can feel himself deflate immediately at the silence that presses in all around him. Why aren’t you saying anything? The panic takes a hold of his heart, squeezing painfully.

He _fucked_ up.

But there’s no going back now.

Tate can’t take looking into those (e/c) eyes of yours anymore. Not when he can’t read what’s going on behind them. It makes him sick, the thought that this really might be the end for him and you. He’d never let you go, not unless you told him to go away – but still, it hurts to think that you really might not feel the same. And that all his daydreams of the two of you together, might really be just that. Dreams.

“Uhm,” He mumbles, glare falling to his hands where they press up against his belly, fiddling nervously with one another. Then he snorts, trying to make it seem like he’s not as worked up about this than he really is. His stomach churns with nausea and any moment now he feels like he might heave. “So, are you going to say anything? Typically you’re supposed to tell me if you like me back . . . or not.”

Tate ends his sentence with a bitter tone and cringes internally when his voice had cracked.

“Shit,” You curse, snapping out of your surprise. It’s not every day your crush actually confesses to you though, so no one can blame you for being a bit shocked. 

You’re still heavily at a loss for words. But you know you need to say something, _anything_ to ease his nerves. To make sure he knows that oh god, you feel the same. You love him, too. You fucking love him. 

So, you crack a smile. His mouth pops open to make a comment on your amused grin. But before he can. your hands firmly gripped his shoulders and you tug him forwards. Your lips meet in a small, fleeting moment – where you pull away with a breath before immediately following up with another kiss. This one hungrier, more desperate.

You find yourself stumbling backwards into a shelf when Tate, emboldened by your actions, surges forward to cup your jaw. Cleaning supplies clatters to the ground around you, a broom falling at your feet. But at this point – it’s all background noise.

Tate’s holding you with a strength you’d never known him to posses. There’s an urgency behind every one of his movements – a _need_ to feel you as close to him as possible. The pads of his fingers press into the skin of your cheeks and jaw, the pressure stern and there, but far from hard enough to hurt you in any way. 

Then his hand trailed around to the nape of your neck. His fingers bunch up your hair as they move back to caress your face. Your lips remain locked until the two of you are practically sharing the same breath. His tongue warm inside your lips. It’s wild, exhilarating, and your heart’s never felt lighter. Nor has it ever beat so fast.

But even then, when Tate finally leans away from you to catch his breath, eyes never abandoning yours. Even then, the moment seemed far too short for your liking. It only leaves you wanting more. 

“So,” He says in a low rasp, one of the many things he did that drove you absolutely crazy. You feel your stomach begin to stir, your neck and ears to warm as you think about all the things you want to do to him right now. Here, in this closet, at your high school. Where if you make too much noise, you’re almost bound to get caught. 

Then again, the two of you are likely to be found out anyway. Maybe if you asked yourself tomorrow, you would still care about getting into trouble then. But as yourself right now, in this moment – you couldn’t care less.

“Does that mean you like me back?” Tate chuckled, hardly able to believe what’s happening right now. You roll your eyes.

You’re still panting from the make out session, skin moist from the heat of this tiny room. Your chest heaves with every inhale of breath you take and Tate watches you through a dark gaze, stare trailing up and down and all over you. 

It’s quiet again but only for a skip of a heartbeat. He peers ever closer, his head dipped low as his hot breath fans down your bare neck. “Screw the pranks. I have something better in mind.”

You know you should say no. That if you do this, you’re almost destined to get caught by one of the patrolling security guards. But you want him _so badly_. Everything in you aches to feel his bare skin flush against yours. You’ve waited god knows how long for this moment and you’ll be damned if you don’t make the best of this.

So you’re quick to nod when he looks you in the eye then, his lips kiss-drunk and glazed. You want to feel him now. You want to make love to him; listen to him say your name - breathless and needy. 

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of your band tee. Tate took a step back to watch you lift the cloth up and over your head. His gaze is wide eyed and dreamy when he takes you in. Soon you’re left in nothing but your bra and jeans, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Feeling suddenly shy now exposed but no less eager.

How many times had he laid in bed thinking about you, touching himself as he pictured seeing you like this. Bare and ready before him – wanting him. Just remembering back on those nights where he’d tossed his head back, hair damp from the sweat as he moaned your name into a pillow – it has him growing hard just at the memory of it. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” Tate breaths out through a dimpled smile. 

You mirror his expression. “Me too.”

Tate has your back pressed up against the wall again in a matter of seconds, drifted over to the side to avoid banging into anymore shelves. He grips your hips then, pulling you into him and you can’t help the way your body grinds up against his on instinct. You close your eyes then, hearing the hush of his pants when he takes your bottom lip between his teeth. 

Cautiously, you trail your hand up, brushing over his neck and ghosting beneath his jawline. Then they danced over his features; you could feel the shape of his cheekbones and his hairline. One of his ears, and as you climbed higher, you smooth your fingertips over a messy brow. Soaking up all of the things you loved about him through your touch. 

Then you eye his bruise again. Balancing up on your tippy toes, you press a kiss to the wound. Something you’d done the day Tate had initially received it – but this time, it meant so much more. You could feel his body stiffening from the action and a sharp intake of breath from the boy makes you stop. 

Tate’s mouth connected with yours first, then they leave a trail of butterflies over your cheeks, down your neck. Placing delicate, sprawled kisses all along your warm, burning skin. He hooks a finger underneath the strap of your bra, leaving a kiss where it once was after he slips it down your shoulder. 

“Ta – ” Your breath hitches in your throat, his hand creeping up your inner thigh. “Tate.” 

“Tell me what you want, (Y/n). Tell me.”

“You. I want all of you. I have for so long.” 

That’s all he needed to hear. Once more you find yourself drawn into another make-out session, Tate’s fingers working at the speed of light on the zipper of your jeans. All while your hands have found purchase in his soft, curly locks. Tugging on them elicits a guttural moan to rise out of him, muffled against your mouth. 

The folds of your jeans are splayed open, unzipped, revealing the black of your panties. But they remain on as Tate removes his own shirt. The snuggly fitted top hadn’t left much to the imagine before, clinging to ever curve and line of his body. But shirtless before you, shadowed beneath the darkness of the room - a heat surges to your core and you press your thighs firmly together, as if that would do much to hide his affect on you. 

“Are you sure you want this?” He glances up at you, one hand carding back his bangs, the other beginning to work out the clasps and buttons of his own jeans. 

“Mhm,” You nod. Your tongue slid over your lip, stare trailing up and down the lines of his stomach. Tate flashes you a brilliant smile then, drinking in the way you’re looking at him now – and absolutely _loving_ it. 

He can’t help it. He’s waited all this time to be yours – _to touch you_ – that he barely can stand not having his hands on you for a moment. He pauses in his own undressing to grab you by the waist again, slipping his hand down the front of your pants. 

And then there’s a pounding at the closet door. Harsh and thunderous. “Hey! Who’s in there?!” 

You and Tate rip apart, both in the process of re-dressing when a flood of light shines upon you. There’s a bang when the door hits the wall, flying open to reveal a pair of flashlights directed pointedly at the two of you. 

You can hear Tate audibly gasp, shirt left looped around his arms. You’re just able to finish pulling down your own top over your bralette and stomach when the security guards come barging in. 

Flames scorch your cheeks. An embarrassment like you’d never felt before flooded you at the sight of the men in uniform. They stand there, shocked for a moment at the sight of the two teens who had very clearly been getting it on in the closet – if the swollen lips, Tate’s rosy cheeks, and the crazed hair was anything to judge by. 

With a sigh, the first officer of the pair steps forward. “Come on.” Unprofessionally, he makes a move to take you by the arm. But he barely skimmed the hairs on your wrist before Tate inserted himself between of the two of you. 

“Don’t touch her.” His voice is level, dark and imprinted with the hints of a threat. He blindly reaches back then to find your hand. Giving your palm a firm squeeze, he pulls you closer to him. You rest your cheek against his arm then, rolling your eyes at his actions. 

It’s cute. He’s probably so excited about being able to call you his’ that he’s taking this opportunity to play the over-protective boyfriend. You know, the type of guy in all the romance novels in the world. The bad boy with a heart of gold and a flaring temper.

Nevertheless, you keep quiet, unable to hide your smile brought on by his words. 

The guard takes one glance at the fierce look in Tate’s pitch black eyes, drops his stare to your grin, then shakes his head. “Alright. Just follow me.” He already seems bored with the entire situation. 

Turning his back on you and Tate, he grumbled something beneath his breath to his co-worker. Who nodded and chuckled in return. With both guards on either side of you, they confiscate your bags and lead you and Tate down the dark halls of the high school. You recognize the way they’re headed. The Principal’s Office. No doubt planning to hold you two there for an interrogation that could take all night. 

That’s certainly not what you had in plan for tonight though. And it looks like Tate’s on the same page as you. He brushes his thumb calmly over the back of your hand while you walk side by side. Then, ever so slightly, he leans his head closer to yours. 

“You trust me right?”

You keep your stare straight ahead to avoid any suspicion. Then, as subtly as you can, you nod. Your palms are sweaty with nerves, your stomach nauseous as you think about all the shit trouble you’re going to be in after they call your parents and the Principal. But something about Tate’s presence next to you makes you feel more at ease.

And you know for a fact, that when it came down to it, you didn’t regret coming here tonight with him one bit. Consequences be damned. 

“Okay,” He licked his lips and shot a brief glance at one of the officers. “Then follow my lead. I’m going to get us out of here.”

You know that even if you two manage to escape right now, it will all come falling down onto your shoulders tomorrow anyway. But the idea of running away together, even if only for a few hours, has a euphoric sense of excitement bubbling up within you. 

You nod again. 

And when Tate spins around, still clutching tight to your hand, and takes off. You don’t waste a second in sprinting after him. Even when the guards had hollered at you to stop, as the school lockers and posters passed by in a blur, and as your heart races with an enthralling adrenaline – you don’t look back. You run, and run, and run.

When Tate glances over his shoulder at you to make sure you’re alright, grinning tirelessly your way – laughter erupts from your lungs. And soon he’s joining in too while you run hand in hand into the night. 

The officers thundering footsteps fade into the distance. It takes barely a few more minutes until you find the window in the music room you had left open for a quick and easy escape. Tate slipped outside first, then helped lower you down afterwards. 

But when your sneakers hit the muddied grass ground, his hands remain idle on your hips. He looks into your eyes then, gasping quietly for breath. You stare back without any reluctance. 

“What do you say we go back to my house and finish what we started?” You muse. 

“Can we do it to Nirvana?” He follows up with a smirk. He tilts his head adorably to the side, a pleading look crossing his face. 

“Only if you promise to take me out on a real date tomorrow.” 

“Pizza?” 

“Sounds good. Pink promise?” 

You raise the finger up, extended to seal the deal. He hooks his pinky around yours. 

“Promise.”


End file.
